Oh, Henry understood that well enough. But didn't all women despise all men unless they were in love with them or wanted to be in love with them or had helped to produce them?
And then again, when you thought of it, didn't all men despise all women with the same exceptions? Clare's scorn of him tingled1 in his ears and made his eyes smart. And what she must have been through to look like that!
He dreamt of her that night; he was in thick jungle and she, tiger-shaped, was hunting him and some one shouted to him: "Look to yourself! Climb into yourself! The only place you're safe in!"
But he couldn't find the way in, the door was locked and the window barred: he knew it was quiet in there and cool and secure, but the hot jungle was roaming with tigers and they were closer and closer. . . .
He woke to Mary Cass's urgent call on the telephone.
Then, when Millie was in his arms all else was forgotten by[Pg 293] him—Clare, Christina, Duncombe, work, all, all forgotten. He was terrified, that she should suffer like this. It was worse, far worse, than that he should suffer himself. All the days of their childhood, all the tiniest things—were now there between them, holding and binding2 them as nothing else could hold and bind3.
Now that tears could come to her she was released and free, the strange madness of that night and day was over and she could tell him everything. Her pride came back to her as she told him, but when he started up and wanted to go at once and find Baxter and drag him through the streets of London by the scruff of his neck and then hang him from the top of the Tower she said: "No, Henry dear, it's no use being angry. Anger isn't in this. I understand how it was. He's weak, Bunny is, and he'll always be weak, and he'll always be a trouble to any woman who loves him, but in his own way he did love me. But I'm not clear yet. It's been my fault terribly as well as his. I shouldn't have listened to Ellen, or if I did, should have gone further. I would take him back, but I haven't any right to him. If he'd told me everything from the beginning I could have gone and seen his mother, I could have found out how it really was. Now I shall never know. But what I do know is that somehow he thought he'd slip through, and that if there was a way, he'd leave that girl to her unhappiness. If he could have found a way he wouldn't have cared how unhappy she was. He would be glad for her to die. I can't love him any more after that. I can't love him, but I shall miss all that that love was . . . the little things. . . ."
By the evening of that day she was perfectly5 calm. For three days he scarcely left her side—and he was walking with a stranger. She had grown in the space of that night so much older that she was now ahead of him. She had been a child; she was now a woman.
She told him that Baxter had written to her and that she had answered him. She went back to Victoria. She was calm, quiet—and, as he knew, most desperately6 unhappy.
He had a little talk with Mary.
"She'll never get over it," he said.
[Pg 294]
"Oh yes, she will," said Mary. "How sentimental7 you are, Henry!"
"I'm not sentimental," said Henry indignantly. "But I know my sister better than you know her."
"You may know your sister," Mary retorted, "but you don't know anything about women. They must have something to look after. If you take one thing away, they'll find something else. It's their only religion, and it's the religion they want, not the prophets."
She added: "Millie is far more interested in life than I am. She is enchanted8 by it. Nothing and nobody will stop her excitement about it. Nobody will ever keep her back from it. She'll go on to her death standing9 up in the middle of it, tossing it around——
"You're like her in that, but you'll never see life as it really is. She will. And she'll face it all——"
"What a lot you think you know," said Henry.
"Yes, I know Millie."
"But she's terribly unhappy."
"And so she will be—until she's found some one more unhappy than herself. But even unhappiness is part of the excitement of life to her."
After a dreamless night he awoke to a sudden consciousness that Millie, Clare Westcott and Christina were in his room. He stirred, raising his head very gently and seemed to catch the shadow of Christina's profile in the grey light of the darkened window.
He sat up and, bending over to his chair where his watch lay, saw that it was nine o'clock. As he sprang out of bed, King entered with breakfast and an aggrieved10 expression. "Knocked a hour ago, sir, and you hanswered," he said.
"Must have been in my sleep then," said Henry yawning, then suddenly conscious of his shabby and faded pyjamas11.
"Can't say, I'm sure, sir . . . knocked loud enough for anything. No letters this morning, sir."
Henry was still at the innocent and optimistic age when letters are an excitement and a hope. He always felt that the world was deliberately12, for malicious13 and cruel reasons of its own, forgetting him when there were no letters.
[Pg 295]
He was splashing in his tin bath, his bony and angular body like a study for an El Greco, when he remembered. Tuesday—nine o'clock. Why? . . . What! . . . Duncombe's operation.
He hurried then as he had never hurried before, gulping14 down his tea, choking over his egg, flinging on his clothes, throwing water on his head and plastering it down, tumbling down the stairs into the street.
A clock struck the half-hour as he hastened into Berkeley Square. He had now no thought but for his beloved master; every interest in life had faded before that. He seemed to be with him there in the nursing home. He could watch it all, the summoning, the procession into the operating theatre, the calm, white-clad surgeon, the nurses, the anaesthetic. . . . His hand was on the Hill Street door bell. He hesitated, trembling. The street was so still in the misty15 autumn morning, a faint scent16 in the air of something burning, of tar4, of fading leaves. A painted town, a painted sky and some figures in the foreground, breathlessly waiting.
The old butler opened the door. He turned back as Henry entered, pointing to the dark and empty hall as though that stood for all that he could say.
"Well?" said Henry. "Is there any news yet?"
"Sir Charles died under the operation. . . . Her ladyship has just been rung up——"
The old man moved away.
"I can't believe it," he said. "I can't believe it. . . . It isn't natural! Such a few good ones in the world. It isn't right." He stood as though he were lost, fingering the visiting-cards on the table. He suddenly raised dull imperceptive eyes to Henry! "They can say what they like about new times coming and all being equal. . . . There'll be masters all the same and not another like Sir Charles. Good he was, good all through." He faded away.
Henry went upstairs. He was so lost that he stood in the library looking about him and wondering who that was at the long table. It was Herbert Spencer with his packets of letters and his bright red tape.
"Sir Charles is dead," Henry said.
[Pg 296]
The books across that wide space echoed: "Sir Charles is dead."
Herbert Spencer looked at the letters in his hand, let them drop, glanced up.
"Oh, I say! I'm sorry! . . . Oh dear!" he got up, staring at the distant bookshelves. "After the operation?"
"During it."
"Dear, dear. And I thought in these days they were clever enough for anything." He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. "Not much use going on working to-day, I suppose?"
Henry did not hear.
"Not much use going on working to-day, I suppose?" he repeated.
"No, none," said Henry.
"You'll be carrying the letters on, I suppose?" he said.
"I don't know," Henry answered.
"Well, you see, it's like this. I've got my regular work I'll have to be getting back to it if this isn't going on. I was put on to this until it was finished, but if it isn't going to be finished, then I'd like to know you see——"
"Of course it's going to be finished," said Henry suddenly.
"Well then——" said Herbert Spencer.
"And I'll tell you this," said Henry, suddenly shouting, "it's going to be finished splendidly too. It's going to be better than you can imagine. And you're going to work harder and I'm going to work harder than we've ever done in our lives. It's going to be the best thing that's ever been. . . . It's all we can do," he added, suddenly dropping his voice.
"All right," said Herbert Spencer calmly. "I'll come to-morrow then. What I mean to say is that it isn't any use my staying to-day."
"It's what he cared for more than anything," Henry cried. "It's got to be beautiful."
"I'll be here to-morrow then," said Spencer, gathered his papers together and went.
Henry walked round, touching17 the backs of the books with his hand. He had known that this would be. There was no surprise here. But that he would never see Sir Charles again nor hear his odd, dry, ironical18 voice, nor see his long nose[Pg 297] raise itself across the table—that was strange. That was indeed incredible. His mind wandered back to that day when Duncombe had first looked at the letters and then, when Henry was expecting curses, had blessed him instead. That indeed had been a crisis in his life—a crisis like the elopement of Katherine with Philip, the outbreak of the War, the meeting with Christina—one of the great steps of the ladder of life. He felt now, as we all must feel when some one we love has gone, the burden of all the kindness undone19, the courtesy unexpressed, the tenderness untended.
And then he comforted himself, still wandering, pressing with his hands the old leather backs and the faded gilding20, with the thought that at least, out there at Duncombe, Sir Charles had loved him and had spoken out the things that were really in his heart, the things that he would not have said to any one for whom he had not cared. That last night in Duncombe, the candle lighting21 the old room, Sir Charles had kissed him as he might his own dearly loved son. And perhaps even now he had not gone very far away.
Henry climbed the little staircase into the gallery and moved into the dusky corners. He came to the place that he always loved best, where the old English novelists were, Bage and Mackenzie and absurd Clara Reeved and Mrs. Opie and Godwin.
He took out Barham Downs and turned over the leaves, repeating to himself the old artificial sentences, the redundant22 moralizing; the library closed about him, put its arms around him, and told him once again, as it had told him once before, that death is not the end and that friendship and love know no physical boundaries.
Hearing a step he looked up and saw below him Lady Bell-Hall. She raised her little pig-face to the gallery and then waited, a black doll, for him to come down to her.
When he was close to her she said very quietly: "My brother died under the operation."
"Yes, I have heard," Henry said.
She put out her hand and timidly touched him on the arm: "Every one matters now for whom he cared," she said. "And he cared for you very much. Only yesterday when I saw[Pg 298] in the nursing-home he said how much he owed to you. He wanted us to be friends. I hope that we shall be."
"Indeed, indeed we will be," said Henry.
"What I want," she said, her upper lip trembling like a child's, "is for every one to know how good he was—how wonderfully good! So few people knew him—they thought him stiff and proud. He was shy and reserved. But his goodness! There never was any one so good—there never will be again. You knew that. You felt it. . . . I don't know . . . I can't believe that we shall never—never again . . . see . . . hear . . ."
She began to cry, hiding her face in her handkerchief, and he suddenly, as though he were many years older than she, put his arm around her. She leant her head against him and he stood there awkwardly, longing23 to comfort her, not knowing what to say. But that moment between them sealed a friendship.
Nevertheless when he left the house he was in a curious rage with life. On so many occasions he himself had been guilty of spoiling life, and even in his worst moods of arrogance24 and ill-temper he had recognised that.
But often during the War he had seen cloven hoofs25 pushing the world, now here, now there, and had heard the laughter of the demons26 watching from their dusky woods. At such times his imagination had faded as the sunlit glow fades from the sky, leaving steel-grey and cold horizons all sharply defined and of a menacing reality.
In his imagination he had seen Duncombe depart, and the picture had been coloured with soft-tinted promises and gentle prophecies—now in the harsh fact Duncombe was gone just as the letter-box stood in Hill Street and the trees were naked in Berkeley Square. Life had no right to do this, and even, so arrogantly27 certain are we all of our personalities28, he felt that this desire should be important enough to defeat life's purpose.
Christina and her mother, Millie and her lover, Duncombe and his operation, what was life about to permit these things? How strongly he felt in his youth his own certainty of survival, but one cock of life's finger and where was he?
[Pg 299]
Well, he was in Piccadilly Circus, and once again, as many months before, he stopped on the edge of the pavement looking across at the winged figure, feeling all the eddy29 of the busy morning life about him, swaying now here, now there, like strands30 of coloured silk, above which were human faces, but impersonal31, abstracted, like fish in a shining sea. The people, the place, then suddenly through his own anger and soreness and sense of loss that moment of expectation again when he rose gigantic above the turmoil32, when beautiful music sounded. The movement, suddenly apprehensive33, ceased! like God he raised his hand, the fountain swayed, the ground opened and——
Standing almost at his side, unconscious of him, waiting apparently34 for an omnibus, was Baxter.
At the sight of that hated face, seen by him before only for a moment but never to be forgotten, rage took him by the throat, his heart pounded, his hands shook; in another instant he had Baxter by the waistcoat and was shaking him.
"You blackguard! You blackguard! You blackguard!" he cried. Then he stepped back; "Come on, you swine! You dirty coward! . . ." With his hand he struck him across the face.
At that moment Baxter must have been the most astonished man in England. He was waiting for his omnibus and suddenly some one from nowhere had caught him by the throat, screamed at him, smacked35 his cheek. He was no coward; he responded nobly, and in a whirl of sky, omnibuses, women, shop-window and noise they were involved, until, slipping over the edge of the kerb, they fell both into the road.
Baxter, rising first, muttered: "Look here! What the devil . . ." then suddenly realized his opponent.
They had no opportunity for a further encounter. A crowd had instantly gathered and was pressing them in. A policeman had his hand on Henry's collar.
"Now, then, what's all this?"
No one can tell what were Baxter's thoughts, the tangle36 of his emotions, regrets, pride, remorse37, since that last scene with Millie. All that is known is that he pushed aside some small boy pressing up with excited wonder in his face, brushed through the crowd and was gone.
[Pg 300]
Henry remained. He stood up, the centre of an excited circle, the policeman's hand on his shoulder. His glasses were gone and the world was a blur38; he had a large bump on his forehead, his breath came in confused, excited pants, his collar was torn. So suddenly had the incident occurred that no one could give an account of it. Some one had been knocked down by some one—or had some one fallen? Was it a robbery or an attempted murder? Out of the mist of voices and faces the large, broad shoulders of the policeman were the only certain fact.
"Now, then, clear out of this. . . . Move along there." The policeman looked at Henry; Henry looked at the policeman. Instantly there was sympathy between them. The policeman's face was round and red like a sun; his eyes were mild as a cow's.
Henry found that his hat was on his head, that he was withdrawn39 from the crowd, that he and the policeman together were moving towards Panton Street. Endeavours had been made to find the other man. There was apparently no Other Man. There had never been one according to one shrill-voiced lady.
"Now what's all this about?" asked the policeman. His tone was fatherly and even affectionate.
"I—hit him," said Henry, panting.
"I don't know. I don't care. You can arrest me if you like," panted Henry.
"Well, I ought to give you in charge by rights," said the policeman, "but seeing as the other feller's 'ooked it—— What did you do it for?"
"I'm not going to say."
"You'll have to say if I take you to Bow Street."
"You can if you like."
The policeman looked at Henry, shaking his head. "It's the War," he said. "You wouldn't believe what a number of seemingly peaceable people are knocking one another about. You don't look very savage41. You'll have to give me your name and address."
[Pg 301]
Henry gave it.
"Why, here's your lodging42. . . . You seem peaceable enough." He shook his head again. "It don't do," he said, "just knocking people down when you feel like it. That's Bolshevism, that is."
"I'm glad I knocked him down," said Henry.
"You'd feel differently to-morrow morning after a night in Bow Street. But I know myself how tempting43 it is. You'll learn to restrain yourself when you come to my age. Now you go in and 'ave a wash and brush up. You need it." He patted Henry paternally44 on the shoulder. "I don't expect you're likely to hear much more of it."
With a smile of infinite wisdom he moved away. Henry stumbled up to his room.
Perhaps he had been a cad to hit Baxter when he wasn't expecting it. But he felt better. His head was aching like hell. But he felt better. And to-morrow he would work at those letters like a fanatic45. He washed his face and realized with pleasure that although it was only the middle of the morning he was extremely hungry. Millie—yes, he was glad that he had hit Baxter.
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1
tingled
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| v.有刺痛感( tingle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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binding
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| 有约束力的，有效的，应遵守的 | |
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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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10
aggrieved
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| adj.愤愤不平的，受委屈的；悲痛的；（在合法权利方面）受侵害的v.令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式)；令委屈，令苦恼，侵害( aggrieve的过去式和过去分词) | |
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pyjamas
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| n.（宽大的）睡衣裤 | |
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deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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14
gulping
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的现在分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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gilding
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| n.贴金箔，镀金 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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redundant
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| adj.多余的，过剩的；(食物)丰富的；被解雇的 | |
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longing
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arrogance
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| n.傲慢，自大 | |
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hoofs
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| n.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的名词复数 )v.（兽的）蹄，马蹄( hoof的第三人称单数 ) | |
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demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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arrogantly
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| adv.傲慢地 | |
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personalities
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| n. 诽谤，（对某人容貌、性格等所进行的）人身攻击； 人身攻击；人格, 个性, 名人( personality的名词复数 ) | |
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eddy
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| n.漩涡，涡流 | |
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strands
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| n.（线、绳、金属线、毛发等的）股( strand的名词复数 )；缕；海洋、湖或河的)岸；（观点、计划、故事等的）部份v.使滞留，使搁浅( strand的第三人称单数 ) | |
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31
impersonal
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| adj.无个人感情的，与个人无关的，非人称的 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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smacked
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| 拍，打，掴( smack的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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withdrawn
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| vt.收回；使退出；vi.撤退，退出 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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41
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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42
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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43
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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44
paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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45
fanatic
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| n.狂热者，入迷者；adj.狂热入迷的 | |
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